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Lewis ficlet
So, I have now caught up on "Lewis" through 6.1 and am going to keep watching them as they air on PBS. And that was a good episode last night, one which kept making noises in my head afterwards, and hence I decided to take a leaf out of yunitsa's book and write a short Lewis/Hathaway conversation to follow the episode (as per penwiper26 for "White Collar"). It is not very short, because this is me, but I think it fills the need to get some words down without actually writing a serious story. Maybe there will be more of these.
Brought to you mostly by the moment of inarticulate yearning and partly by the bow, because I do like Liv (hey, if she was a little older she could almost be my Olivia undercover in 21st-century Oxford, for some reason, and would not be the least fazed by anyone bowing at her) though I know for whom Hathaway's heart beats and shall evermore beat.
"Are you seeing her again?"
She had a name, but Hathaway wanted to understand Lewis's reluctance to use it. "'Seeing' in another sense than 'questioning with regard to murder inquiry'?"
"You know what I mean." Hathaway didn't answer, and Lewis looked down into the swirling remnants of his pint. "Puts a damper on it when you have to ask them their whereabouts on the night of," he added.
"Yes." Hathaway reconsidered. "Not always. But no." Lewis glanced up, his mouth twisting a bit, a look of what Hathaway couldn't quite define as hope in his eyes. "I am not seeing her again. Unless I happen to visit the Botanical Garden on my day off."
"You have those, then? Not that I've noticed. Another pint? On me."
"No, thank you, sir."
"Why not?"
"I've had enough for one--"
"No. Why not see Liv again? Once you've got over bowing at her."
The name, now: this was no longer banter. "Too young for me, sir."
Lewis snorted. "You're not exactly Methuselah yourself."
"Nine hundred and sixty-nine years." Hathaway deleted the asinine "some days I feel that old" and substituted, "Some scholars claim the insertion of a decimal point resolves the apparent impossibility."
"Maybe by ninety-six point nine I'll be retired. And you'll be studying botany." Lewis stared into his glass. "You're right about that third pint."
"I'm always right, sir."
"Hah."
"And are you seeing Michelle again? Speaking of being right."
"I'll be looking in on her," Lewis said, evidently nettled. "Make sure she's doing well."
"She'll be needing a new purpose in life," Hathaway said. He didn't have to add "it might be you."
"I'm worried about her, that's all."
"A brotherly concern."
"Fellow parents, more like. You wouldn't--" Lewis cut the remark off short.
"It passeth all understanding. Though perhaps in a sense the citizens of Oxford are all our children." Hathaway bit his lip; he hadn't meant to use the plural. But Lewis didn't seem to notice.
"There's some I'd like to put over my knee, that's for sure." He swallowed the last of his pint. "Of course you'd understand. Clever clogs, you."
The affection in his voice warmed Hathaway: the back of his neck particularly, as though he'd grown fur and been stroked. "Thank you, sir," was all he said. "But I don't, really."
"Get yourself a couple of kids, then. Little tow-headed boy, little dark-haired girl. Babbling in Latin." Lewis checked the glass to see if any of his ale remained. "You might want to hold back on that, middle of an investigation."
"Having children?"
"The Latin," Lewis said in his speaking-the-obvious-to-fools tone. "Not that around here it doesn't help to make them feel--"
"That it matters?"
"That you're on their side, I was going to say."
"The old good cop, over-educated cop routine. It's worked for us so far, wouldn't you say? But I'll emulate you if you wish. Playing dumb." He hit the first word hard enough to earn a charge of police brutality. Subtlety would have vanished with the third pint, for certain. "I think we've had this conversation before," he added.
"No doubt," said Lewis. "I bet Methuselah repeated himself pretty often after he hit five hundred or so, too. Just go on the way you're going, Hathaway. Like you said, it's worked so far."
"Age quod agis, sir." Lewis gave him a look. "Go on the way you're going," Hathaway explained, a broad translation. "Ad infinitum, if it so please." He lifted his empty glass. "I don't really need a partner, sir. I have a guv'nor."
Lewis met his eyes for one eternal second, and then raised his glass in return. "Cheers," he said, and mocked a bow.
Brought to you mostly by the moment of inarticulate yearning and partly by the bow, because I do like Liv (hey, if she was a little older she could almost be my Olivia undercover in 21st-century Oxford, for some reason, and would not be the least fazed by anyone bowing at her) though I know for whom Hathaway's heart beats and shall evermore beat.
"Are you seeing her again?"
She had a name, but Hathaway wanted to understand Lewis's reluctance to use it. "'Seeing' in another sense than 'questioning with regard to murder inquiry'?"
"You know what I mean." Hathaway didn't answer, and Lewis looked down into the swirling remnants of his pint. "Puts a damper on it when you have to ask them their whereabouts on the night of," he added.
"Yes." Hathaway reconsidered. "Not always. But no." Lewis glanced up, his mouth twisting a bit, a look of what Hathaway couldn't quite define as hope in his eyes. "I am not seeing her again. Unless I happen to visit the Botanical Garden on my day off."
"You have those, then? Not that I've noticed. Another pint? On me."
"No, thank you, sir."
"Why not?"
"I've had enough for one--"
"No. Why not see Liv again? Once you've got over bowing at her."
The name, now: this was no longer banter. "Too young for me, sir."
Lewis snorted. "You're not exactly Methuselah yourself."
"Nine hundred and sixty-nine years." Hathaway deleted the asinine "some days I feel that old" and substituted, "Some scholars claim the insertion of a decimal point resolves the apparent impossibility."
"Maybe by ninety-six point nine I'll be retired. And you'll be studying botany." Lewis stared into his glass. "You're right about that third pint."
"I'm always right, sir."
"Hah."
"And are you seeing Michelle again? Speaking of being right."
"I'll be looking in on her," Lewis said, evidently nettled. "Make sure she's doing well."
"She'll be needing a new purpose in life," Hathaway said. He didn't have to add "it might be you."
"I'm worried about her, that's all."
"A brotherly concern."
"Fellow parents, more like. You wouldn't--" Lewis cut the remark off short.
"It passeth all understanding. Though perhaps in a sense the citizens of Oxford are all our children." Hathaway bit his lip; he hadn't meant to use the plural. But Lewis didn't seem to notice.
"There's some I'd like to put over my knee, that's for sure." He swallowed the last of his pint. "Of course you'd understand. Clever clogs, you."
The affection in his voice warmed Hathaway: the back of his neck particularly, as though he'd grown fur and been stroked. "Thank you, sir," was all he said. "But I don't, really."
"Get yourself a couple of kids, then. Little tow-headed boy, little dark-haired girl. Babbling in Latin." Lewis checked the glass to see if any of his ale remained. "You might want to hold back on that, middle of an investigation."
"Having children?"
"The Latin," Lewis said in his speaking-the-obvious-to-fools tone. "Not that around here it doesn't help to make them feel--"
"That it matters?"
"That you're on their side, I was going to say."
"The old good cop, over-educated cop routine. It's worked for us so far, wouldn't you say? But I'll emulate you if you wish. Playing dumb." He hit the first word hard enough to earn a charge of police brutality. Subtlety would have vanished with the third pint, for certain. "I think we've had this conversation before," he added.
"No doubt," said Lewis. "I bet Methuselah repeated himself pretty often after he hit five hundred or so, too. Just go on the way you're going, Hathaway. Like you said, it's worked so far."
"Age quod agis, sir." Lewis gave him a look. "Go on the way you're going," Hathaway explained, a broad translation. "Ad infinitum, if it so please." He lifted his empty glass. "I don't really need a partner, sir. I have a guv'nor."
Lewis met his eyes for one eternal second, and then raised his glass in return. "Cheers," he said, and mocked a bow.